


memory serves

by bloodyhoneymoon



Category: Persona 2
Genre: (well. pre-main game anyway), Angst, Gaslighting, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15559041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodyhoneymoon/pseuds/bloodyhoneymoon
Summary: And he wondered why he even bothered to wake up.





	memory serves

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place after jun starts acting as joker!! i got curious about like. if he ever gets downtime from that, and how aware he is of his actions as joker. i imagine he'd stop going to school at some point, and because most of his time would be spent as joker, he'd just. wake up disoriented and alone in his apartment (and then, who's paying for that apartment?). i also wanted to sort of think more on his relationship with and view of his parents at this point, because nyarlathotep seems to more or less have him indoctrinated. junko is Awful as always.
> 
> it all made me a bit sad, so i wanted to write about it.

He woke to a blaring sound of nothing, more deafening than any alarm. He couldn’t bother himself to move, prefering to stare at the chipping plaster of the apartment’s ceiling, making a bold, valiant attempt to ignore the sharp neck pain that came with sleeping on a dilapidated loveseat. The ugly taupe upholstery was tattered, certainly, but it was by far the most luxurious of his furniture. 

Jun sat up, dismayed to feel a sharp ache down his back as well, like it was begging for a bed to sleep on instead. Tough luck. With bleary disdain, he regarded a dying potted plant in the corner of the room. When had it gotten so bad? Surely he’d watered it a day or two ago? He could practically hear the roots in the bone-dry topsoil, stretching themselves deeper and deeper ( _ so desperate, wanting to live so bad _ ) to reach any minute amount of water that could remain. He pondered it for a second until the sound overwhelmed him, hurting him somewhere deep in his ears and triggering a headache. 

He had a vague worry that he was imagining it, though; he was (fairly) sure that he couldn’t actually hear the rhizomes within the crumbling dirt, but his oncoming migraine felt very real. Jun’s mind grew hazier, and he briefly entertained the idea that he was dying on the floor, spasming on the filthy carpet, because really, what was there to be certain of anymore? 

Nothing, aside from Father, man-in-the-coat Father, wonderful Father who knew the truth ( _ that is what happened, do you remember now _ ), his Father who would protect him and save him and make the world heavenly ( _ i remember, i saw it happen _ ). 

He really wished he could remember what happened when he wasn’t awake, though.

Jun only registered that his whole body was trembling when he looked down to his hands, shaking uncontrollably, pale and wild, perfect and perfectly complementing the allegro of his hyperventilations. His heart was beating crazily, and he had another fleeting thought of death, a notion of angina. He snapped his head up to look around in a frenzy, scanning the room for Nothing In Particular (cigarettes or something, please, please). His skin was starting to crawl, every single follicle feeling alien, and the idea of lighting up a cigarette made a secluded spot of his brain itch quite terribly. He had no lighter. The mere thought of one made him feel terribly empty, and he flung his twitching fingers up into his hair to curl about it and pull, trying to make himself feel something again. 

He was sweating.

For lack of smokes, he both carefully and unceremoniously brought himself to his feet, breathing somewhat calmed, and walked a short two metres to his tiny kitchen unit. In the fridge was half a pot of white rice and nothing more. There was no more food in the apartment and he knew for a fact that he only had enough money left to pay the rent this week. He did not allow himself for a second to question why Father, wonderous Father hadn’t paid anything into it, instead opting to rub his temples at the thought of what he would have to do as the alternative.

Reluctance building, he shuffled to where his phone rested, next to the loveseat he used for a bed. It had a lovely curled cord, the only part of it that shined by the light coming in through the streaked windows. The body of the phone was black, with an odd scratch mark on it. Jun took more time than was necessary toying with the cord, looping his finger through it, vaguely entertained by how it snapped back into shape no matter how he manipulated it. He almost wished it would come undone, lose its form, try to fight against the force of his bitten fingernail. He sighed and picked up the receiver.

Jun dialled his mother’s phone number.

It rang for a few moments. Then another. Jun became closer and closer to relief with each ring, perhaps she wouldn’t pick up, perhaps she had left the country, he would be happy to starve for a week, to ration himself half a pot of rice, if it meant he didn’t have to do this-

Someone picked up, and his heart sunk.

“H’llo…?” answered a gruff male voice, ragged and dry. He sounded as though he’d just woken up. Jun had no clocks in his home, and had no idea if it was a proper time to be waking up (he mostly just drifted in and out of sleep, by his approximation). 

“Put Junko Kurosu on the line, please.” Jun responded curtly, as coldly as he could muster, pushing down the slight tremble in his voice.

The man grunted. “Hah? Who the fuck’re you? H’the fuck you get this number?” he slurred, and Jun briefly wondered if, were he there, he’d be able to smell the whiskey on the man’s breath. The expensive sort. 

“Tell her I need money.” Jun didn’t bother explaining. It usually went poorly.

“ _ What? _ You need  _ money?  _ D’you fuckin’ know who we’re talking about, brat? Or’re you just some shithead scam-”

The man stopped flapping his mouth. Jun heard, softly, a feminine voice somewhere on the other end, a command to hand over the phone. He braced himself as he heard the thumping of the receiver being passed around.

“Hello?”

Her polished tone made him sick to his stomach. He felt as though he was being stabbed in the stomach with a lovely dagger, fine steel with a golden handle encrusted with rubies of every size, and all the passersby remarked on the beauty of the weapon without thinking to call an ambulance. 

“I need money.” He wanted to keep it as short as he could.

His mother made a small sound of mock-surprise. “Hmm. Are you starving, Jun?”

He did not respond.

She sighed (that was the most hateful noise in the world, he heard it in every goddamn dream he had, so disappointed, so high above him, so merciful, she never cared). “I’m in a good mood. Aren’t you so lucky, Jun? That I’m in a good mood?” 

Jun would never come see her in person for money, because her saying that made him flinch and cover his face, just as it had when he was a little boy.

“I do so much for you. You should be more grateful, you know.”

She said it sweetly, like it could be a joke, like she really loved him. It was too late; he already knew not to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Jun? Aren’t you thankful?”

He was scared to speak, scared he would shake and croak out his response. His blood felt frigid within every capillary of his body, and he became very aware of the rhythm it flowed in. 

How strange it felt, to think on his childhood. His mother hissing venom at him, standing over him, how some nights he’d sit in the closet, face in his knees for hours until night had fallen and it was safe for him to retrieve food from the kitchen. 

_ (And where had Father been? Father who would save him? How strange, how strange. Perhaps he’d just forgotten. Of course Father would have saved him. Perhaps Father had been busy. How ridiculous it was to doubt him.) _

Jun fiercely bit his thumbnail, once again craving a cigarette. 

“Jun?”

“...Yes, Mama.” He loathed the poison of his own tongue in his mouth, but knew he wouldn’t get what he wanted otherwise. His eyes and nose burnt, a silent threat, and he could not dare say anything else. 

He couldn’t see her face but he knew her smile, how it sounded, how uncertain and confused and thrilled it made him feel. Jun also heard the sound of a purse zipping open and fingers folding through bills.

“I’ll send it to you right away.” Her tone was so self-satisfied, like she craved this phone call every other month, needed it to stay on her throne. Maybe it made her feel nostalgic.

Neither of them spoke beyond that. There was a brief silence before Junko hung up the phone, the dial tone buzzing hollow and too-close, like an insect that had trapped itself within his cochlea. 

Jun flung the receiver at the wall and let himself crumple into sobs.


End file.
